Nochnye Vedmy
by intellectual titmouse
Summary: Word spread like wildfire after John Wick came back to the game. So much so, people were coming out from the woodwork in search of his help. Including a connection to an old partner. A partner he hadn't seen since before he left. The partner he'd almost given it all up for. This is A/U. M for violence and later explicit scenes of an adult nature, some romance & angst. I/R BW/OM
1. Texting is Not an Option

"Pick up, pick up, pick up!" she whispered desperately into the phone, her jaw grit tight. Her heart beat an unsteady drum solo against her ribcage, her breathing erratic as she tried to calm herself. The closet was beginning to close in on her, each ring amping her adrenaline, her head stuffy, eyes watering. "C'mon, John!" Time was running out; soon enough they would find her, pull her, take her to him.

If she was lucky.

' _You've reached John. You know what to do.'_

"Goddamn it, John!" she screamed before she could stop herself. She slapped a hand over mouth, but it was too late; a shout, then two.

Then the booted feet against the door. Once. Twice.

"Fuck it," she grunted, bursting through the closet doors and stumbling into her bedroom. She immediately tripped over a pair of jeans, but recovered in time to dive into the bathroom just as the first henchmen crossed the threshold. She slammed the door shut and scrambled to the small window, shoving it upwards so hard, the glass cracked. She maneuvered her tiny body through the even smaller space, bruising her hips, scraping her sides, her sweat acting as lubricant as she managed to squeeze out just as the one she recognized as Igor grabbed her left foot. Red Converse gone, she belly-crawled down the fire escape for the first flight, then rolled head-over-feet for the next three. She kicked down the extension and grabbed the railings, sliding down and slicing open her hands, one bare foot tasting wet concrete for only a millisecond before she took off running, tiptoes propelling her forward, through the rain, then the crowds of a popping Saturday night in the East Village.

No one noticed the blood. No one noticed the torn clothing. Everyone ignored the little Black girl tearing through, against the flow, her face twisted in desperate agony, a broken phone clutched tight in her fist.

Not until the gunshots started.

Then screaming. Panic. Running in all sorts of directions. Bodies fell around her, so she cut down East 3rd, but it made no difference. White girls stopped giggling, horror painting their faces just before the splatters of crimson redecorated. She could barely hear the screams anymore as the tears blurred her vision.

It was so fucking cold and she didn't have a coat on.

Her breath was losing her as she turned on Bowery, a mistake, she knew. The crowds were worse here, but maybe, just maybe somebody would give a damn.

No one did. More died.

They were doing this on purpose. More than once, they could've taken her down, if not killed her, but she was running from them, making them give effort.

She would pay dearly.

Finally, she'd had enough; she cut down East 7th, then Shevchenko, crouching behind the Catholic school.

Waiting.

She looked at the cell phone in her hand, the screen missing chunks of glass, its face flickering. Still, she knew it had use, enough power for one last call.

She thought of her, thought to reach out, but then remembered those last words, the last look of disgust. The sob escaped her lips before she could choke it back, her fingers trembling as she dialed the number one last time.

She didn't bother begging for him to pick up. She knew he wouldn't. Maybe couldn't. Either way, she'd never hear that reassuring timbre ever again.

Aside from his greeting.

' _You've reached John. You know what to do.'_

She couldn't speak, her throat tight, her saliva metallic in her mouth. But then heard the shout.

"John. They're going to kill me. Listen carefully and listen good. Fury Whips Tiamat and I Live to Tell the Tale." She blew out a breath and shut her eyes tight. "Texting is Not an Option, John. Tell her I love her."

She ended the call and dismantled the phone, crushing the SIM card and motherboard into as many pieces as her deft little fingers could manage. She then stood, crunching the rest under the heel of her well-worn red Converse. Her favourite pair. The last pair she'd given her.

"Well, well, well."

Igor. As beautiful as he was dumb. They'd fucked once. He was prettier clothed.

"Looking for this, little chickie?"

She turned slowly, hands in the air, a confident smirk on her lips. The rain hardly bothered her now, her skin no longer cold, though the goosepimples dotting along her umber flesh told otherwise. Her breath left her in clouds of grey, her lips blue against the white of her teeth.

Igor held her Converse in the air, waving it tauntingly.

She reached slowly behind her back and Igor's eyes widened, her smile mocking him.

"No!" he shouted, holding up a hand in protest.

But it was too late.

The bullets rained as freely as the droplets from the sky, crimson running with clear as her body hit the concrete, both hands empty, her smile still bright as she stared, unseeing, into the night sky.


	2. Welcome Back, Night Witch

**A/N: One. Year. Later. I'm sorry, y'all. This is actually my first fanfic ever. I usually let characters gently influence my entirely new fiction, not borrow an entire world, so this presented as a much bigger challenge than I was prepared for. I'm rusty as hell in general. Accept this as my pre-apology. Hopefully updates will be much more frequent from this point on. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **One Week Later . . .**

The car was waiting for him, driverless, when he stepped out of _Václav_ _Havel_. A bit ostentatious for his tastes, but the case was relative, considering the collection of cars he had back home. He rounded the black 2016 Jaguar XF coupe and popped the locks from the remote nestled in his pocket. The door opened and he slid inside, the engine roaring to life without any provocation as he clipped in his seatbelt. He made no time to be impressed.

Word would travel fast.

* * *

He came to a stop just in front of the Činžák he was seeking in the center of _Staré Město_ , parking in a reserved spot. His gut tightened as he hopped out, steps rigid, eyes down. He entered the code on the keypad and pushed entrance door open, walking straight to the observation elevator and stepping on. He shut the gate immediately behind him, ignoring the nervous, giggling pleas of the young mother with an empty stroller waving at him. He met her eye and held it as the elevator began its ascent until he could see her no longer, her apparent hurt and anger barely registering as his palms began to sweat.

The lift jerked to a stop on the fourth floor, one below the roof, and he stepped out, stalking towards door number nine. He rapped lightly on the impressive bleached oak, a new addition to the post-war building. He listened as the footsteps on the other side approached, then hesitated, sliding slightly to the right. His hand instinctively pressed against the door, just there, his smirk automatic.

 _Getting rusty._

The door swung open without warning, no locks disengaged, no alarms disabled. She stood before him without barrier, without suspicion. Unarmed. Her eyes, those black voids of quietude watched him, unblinking. Captured, he watched her back, his entire being stilled by her. She looked the same, if not a little tired, a little softer. Same flawless stained red mahogany skin, same thick, pouty lips. Same aura of subtle anger and a certain unhinge about her.

She was still fucking gorgeous.

She licked her lips, the bottom one clasped immediately by her white, slightly crooked teeth as she hid the smile spreading beyond her control.

"John Wick."

An instant flood of icy heat washed over his flesh, his eyes hooding as a smile of his own appeared.

"Zora Mordeau."

She stepped back and let him in.

She made tea, despite his protests, but didn't bother with more clothing.

The apartment was freezing, yet she walked back and forth in a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt – both too large for her person – and braless, her feet bare and tinged blue from the cold. Once the tray was to her satisfaction, she sat it on the wooden coffee table and sat herself in the red plush couch across from him. The only colour in the otherwise nearly empty space. She dutifully poured him a cup, then herself, proceeding to serve him butter cookies before scooting back.

He'd noticed the ring from the time she'd let him in. Now it clinked against her mug as she held it close to her chest.

"Where is he?" he asked, eyes intent on her finger.

She moved to hide it, then gave up with a huff. "Dead. Four months. Brain aneurysm."

John's neck twitched ever so slightly, eyebrows lifted.

She blinked at him. "Helen?"

"Brain tumor. Three months."

They let the information ruminate, both sipping disinterestedly at their teas.

"What brings you to Prague, John?"

"I'd imagine you knew I was coming."

She smirked. "No one comes into _Václav Havel_ without me knowing, John. Of course I knew."

"Then you know why I'm here."

She stared him, eyes unseeing for a moment, not one bit of emotion in them. "I've heard distant rumours, but people can't be trusted."

He nodded in silent agreement, then shifted to remove his cell phone from his suit pocket. He took note of her relaxed posture, not even a twitch of defense, as he accessed his voicemail system and put the phone on speaker.

The first message was a garbled mess quickly ended after a few seconds of rustling. The next was time-stamped exactly two minutes later.

' _Goddamn it, John!'_

She sat forward, tea mug gently placed on the tray, body tense as her eyes watched the screen in front of her.

The third clocked in twenty-eight minutes and thirteen seconds after.

' _John. They're going to kill me. Listen carefully and listen good. Fury Whips Tiamat and I Live to Tell the Tale. Texting is Not an Option, John. Tell her I love her.'_

"Play it again," she demanded almost as soon as it was over. John did what she asked. "Again." This time she took the phone in her trembling hands, as if the recording would become tangible, no, as if it would manifest her sister's face, her body, her _life_ right there in Zora's sweaty palms.

The message ended one last time, the automated voice asking for clearance to delete or save.

Zora took the liberty of deleting all three. Her fingers closed around the phone until there was a distinct crack. She opened her hand to let the four pieces fall to the table. She stood and walked towards the wide windows, the sunlight bathing her, yet neglecting her of its warmth.

She shivered.

"Were you ever happy, John?" she asked suddenly. "When you met her? When you left? Were you really happy?"

John watched her, his eyes drifting over her back, landing on her ass, pronounced in the boxer shorts, despite the bagginess of them. His gaze then fell to the backs of her thick, powerful thighs, the twin black ink tattoos of the cross with crosslet and fitchee on prominent display. Her own little fuck you to the game.

Though he knew for certain she did enjoy playing it.

The memory of her holding his hand while she got them done flooded him, sensation and all. Not that she needed his support.

 _I just like touching you,_ she'd said. He'd kissed her then. Kissed her twice more as the tattoo artist wiped her down, staunching the jealousy in the pit of his stomach as another man touched her. He made up for it that night, the gunner's needle a long distant memory by the time he'd put her to sleep.

"I was," he answered, swallowing back the reverie along with the remnants of her taste.

She didn't respond, didn't move as he continued to watch her. Someone yelled in the hallway in Czech about some asshole parked in a reserved spot. She turned from the window and approached him, falling to her knees in front of him, nestling between his.

"I'm glad," she whispered, her dead eyes in his, sweaty palms heating the tops of his thighs. John leaned back, his jaw grit tight. "This is the last they'll get of me, John."

He frowned at her. "The same thing I thought three months ago."

She stood and walked towards the other side of the apartment. "I've always been more stubborn than you."

* * *

Charon blinked at her, the jaw cut from midnight marble working as he sought the words that would never come. Discretion was the policy, abject courtesy the interaction. The latter was currently failing the normally stoic man.

Zora lifted an eyebrow. Shifted the cherry-flavoured lollipop to the left side of her mouth. "Are you suffering a stroke, Charon? Shall I fetch The Doctor?"

Strained air passed his throat. He cleared it. "No, Ms. Mordeau, that won't be necessary. My apologies for the . . . lack of greeting."

Her gloved grip tightened on the bag's handle and she waved him off with her free hand. "No worries, Charon. It has been a long while. I'd like a room, please."

"Yes, of course, Ms. Mordeau." The man's demeanor was closer to normal as his attention shifted to the sleek computer below the counter. "And how long will you be staying with us?"

She shrugged, shifted the lollipop again. "Give me a week."

"You have credit for six," Charon reported, his forehead beginning to glisten.

"Mm, no expiration?"

Charon met her gaze briefly before looking back at the computer. "Exceptions were made. You're one of our best clients. As was your father."

She nodded stiffly, though Charon didn't see it. "I won't need more than one. Reserve the other five. Just in case."

"Well done." Charon completed the transaction in silence, sliding over the key and menus for various services before saying, "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Mordeau."

The relief was palpable as Zora moved away from the counter and headed towards the elevator banks.

* * *

She was crunching on the sharp bits left on the disintegrating stick when the knock sounded at her door. Sliding the magazine into the chamber of her .45 Desert Eagle, Zora Mordeau rose from the bed, stepped over the dozen handguns, and pulled the door open wide, barrel first.

"Lazy."

"I knew it was you."

John Wick pushed her arm down as he slid into the room, the tickle of his expensive, yet understated aftershave causing Zora's nose to itch and her pussy to clench. She chewed harder as she shut the door.

"What is your plan?" he asked, sitting at the edge of the bed as if worried about wrinkling his suit. Zora lifted an eyebrow as she maneuvered towards him on the tips of her toes, carefully navigating the scattered weaponry.

"Going on a date?" He looked up and she pointed at his attire with her chin.

He smirked. "Dinner." Her jaw grit tighter. "With you."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

He frowned. "Logistics. Names. Plans." He blew out a breath when she didn't seem to understand. "You've been gone a long time, Zora. Things have . . . changed."

"I think I know all I need to," she said, turning away and scratching her left asscheek from beneath yet another pair of too-big boxers. These, a paisley red.

"No, I really don't think you do," John pushed, standing from the bed.

Zora stopped and turned, pulling the mangled stick from between her teeth. Her cold black eyes traced John's silhouette until he began to fidget. Spitting the remnants of paper rather gracelessly, she said, "Are you attempting to protect me, John? Are you worried for me?"

John opened his mouth but stopped short as she blinked at him.

"My sister is dead. Didn't you half-ass murder half a Russian syndicate over your puppy? Are you saying my sister's life doesn't match your puppy?"

John clenched his jaw. "It was more than half. And it's the same fucking syndicate that's already got a number on your head."

"Correction, John," Zora mumbled as she reached for another lollipop. Cherry. Again. "The number existed before I left. It's tripled since I landed." She shoved the round candy into her mouth and took a long suck, relishing in the rush of sugared endorphins. "Not smoking blows ass, John. Don't ever start."

"Good thing I brought these then."

She looked up to see in his outstretched hand a pack of Italian black cigarillos. The kind she used to love. She bit her lip to stop the smirk. Reached for them.

He pulled them back. "Dinner."

Her top lip curled, face scrunched.

He winked. "Wear something nice."

* * *

"You're a real dick for this, John Wick," Zora said as she approached. He would've retorted, had he been able to find his tongue. The dress was a simple black number, tight and short, revelatory of too much and too little at the same time. John felt himself salivating with every fibre of his being. It'd been a long time since he'd wanted anyone this bad, this instantaneously. Her thick lips were painted matte black and she topped off the ensemble with loose combat boots and a sequined clutch he was sure held a .32 caliber Beretta Tomcat.

All Black. The ring, gone.

He cleared his throat. "You could've bought your own. I'm sure Charon would have no issue in delivering them himself."

Zora snorted. "You should've seen him when I checked in. Looked like he swallowed his fucking tongue."

"I think it's the hair." John reached for the halo of her afro and she flinched, smacking his wrist. "What?"

"Never touch a Black woman's hair, John, I thought I taught you better than this."

"Come now," he said, his voice dropping dangerously low. He neared her, the same hand she'd swatted away sliding along her bare neck and hooking the back of her head, his deft fingers threading through the thick tresses, massaging her scalp until he heard the quiet whimper escape her lips. He smirked as his lips brushed the rim of her ear, the floral scent of her hair making his cock twitch. "You know damn well you enjoyed me pulling your hair when it got too long." His fingertips curled into the roots, tugging ever so slightly. She exhaled audibly, her body leaning into his. "I can _smell_ it on you."

Just as Zora found use for her arms, the metal slot drew back with a dramatic snap, two bright blue eyes set in a thick head staring back out at them. When recognition hit, no password or payment was needed, the slot closing and deadbolts releasing nearly instantly. John looked at Zora and Zora shrugged.

"Looks like you weren't the only to miss me."

She stepped forward, weaving through the slow-dancing crowd as if it hadn't been years since she'd been there, and headed straight for the bar. A memory clenched John's gut and he reached for Zora a moment too late, the silk of her skin slipping right through his grasp. Thankfully, Addy looked up in time to switch tactics, her stance hard and defensive as Zora slid onto a barstool, surprising the shit out of both Addy and John.

"I can still smoke here, right?" Zora asked, her glare strong as Addy tried not to fidget.

"Look, Zora-"

"Cuz it'd be a real fuckin' shame if I had to dress up just for a smoke I can't enjoy with a fine fuckin' cocktail. Am I right, dear Addy?"

Abby sputtered for a moment, her pale skin flushing under the decorative lights. "I never got to apo-"

Zora stood up to slip both her knees onto the stool and lean her body half way across the bar top, her face dangerously close to Addy's.

"Zora, what the fuck are you doing?" John asked from beside her. He looked to both women nervously, though his hand held onto Zora's flexed bicep.

"Tell me I can smoke here, Addy," Zora whispered, her eyes boring into the trembling woman.

"Y-yeah. Sure. You can smoke here, Zora," Addy finally said.

Zora grinned and twisted her jaw as if she were chewing gum. She split her knees and straddled the stool before sliding languidly from the pleather surface. "Good. You remember how I like it?"

"Gin-heavy," Addy said, her entire body easing.

"That's mah girl!" Zora popped her jaw again, then caressed John's before blowing them both a kiss. "Be right back! Gotta handle some business."

They watched her as she made her way towards the booths, away from the crowd. She gave the band a finger wave and each one of them missed a step, Dale tripping over his drums, Alan plucking the wrong bass string, Adele's voice cracking. But as if Zora Mordeau had never appeared, they recollected themselves and John's gaze lost track of the twin blasphemous crosses as the crowd swallowed her whole.

* * *

"Well shit."

Zora tilted her head. "Something tells me Jonathan received no such greeting when seeking your counsel."

Winston snorted and dropped his paper, reaching for his staple martini next. After a long sip, he said, "You, my dear, are no Jonathan Wick."

"Thank fuck for that."

"Please. Sit." He removed his reading glasses and gestured to the other side of the red-leather booth. Zora accepted the invitation, careful of the short hem of her dress. It'd been some time since she'd dressed like this. A single droplet of sweat crawling down her back reminded her of why she'd kept her hair short, too. Always hot. Always slippery. Everywhere and everyone.

"I can't stay long. Mr. Wick himself is treating me to a cheap dinner of strong drinks and expensive cigarillos," she quipped, reaching for Winston's drink. She barely touched her lips the glass before returning it. Too dry. Not enough gin.

"I thought you quit?"

Zora gave him the corner of her eye.

"Harry spoke of you non-stop."

The left side of her jaw popped audibly, the pressure of its meeting nearly cracking teeth. When the silence became a bit unsettling, Zora cleared her throat. "I'm sure."

"Have you spoken with John concerning that night?"

She licked the very inside of her lips, careful of the matte finish. The charade needed to last just a little longer. "I know all I need to, dear Winston."

His smile was uneasy, but relenting as he sat back against the booth, eyes tracing her stern face. "He never meant-"

Zora held up a hand. "I know what he meant."

Winston raised both eyebrows high. "Do you?"

Zora stiffened. "I know enough."

"Yet you've come to me. Why?"

The smile returned along with the anger. Not the helpless kind that had threatened just moments before, the one that fueled her. The one that created her reputation all those years ago. The one she'd attempted to leave behind.

The one that brought her back.

"I'm going to ask you the same thing I asked Jonathan as he sat in your same position: Have you returned to the fold, Zora Mordeau?"

Zora leaned forward, breasts against the table, eyes hard. "They never had me, Winston."

Winston smirked, honestly worried for the woman. "If you so believe, Zora, then it is. But I have no information to give. I'm aware of your . . . personal mission here and I do wish I could assist. Harry was a dear friend to me and the Continental."

"As was Ginny."

Winston sagged. "Zora-"

But she was already standing, her features tight with resistance. "Have a wonderful evening, Winston. I'll see you again soon, I'm sure."

And for the second time that night, Zora left her prior company speechless and defeated.

* * *

John watched her as she inhaled deeply, her eyes rolling shut, head falling back, chest lifted before releasing the blue smoke into the already dense air of the underground club.

"Goddamn, that's good," she breathed. He hadn't heard her, but had read her lips, studied her movements, knew her well enough to know what she'd said.

"Why'd you quit?" John asked, leaning over the small table.

She sobered from her moment and met his curious gaze. "Him."

And instantly, John hated _him_. He had no right, he knew, but . . . didn't he know how she tasted after smoking one? How husky her laugh would be? How heady her gaze became when she looked your way?

Almost the way she was looking at John now. "Said it wasn't good for the kid."

John sobered. Blinked. Searched for the words he knew wouldn't come. There was no child during his brief visit to _Staré Město_. There was hardly presence of anyone aside from Zora herself. If it hadn't been for the ring, _he_ wouldn't have been a topic of discussion.

"The kid," John repeated, rather dumbly. Zora looked as though she wanted to laugh in his face, but she took another pull instead. Then nodded. "How old?"

"Three," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. She tapped the ash, took a longer pull. "When he died."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Zora-"

"And here's your refill, Ms. Mordeau," interrupted a young, tight, and brown waitress, her bright eyes filled with admiration. She carefully placed the full martini glass next to Zora's arm. "Courtesy of the gentleman in the booth behind you."

"Thank you," Zora said. "Extend the same sentiments to the gentleman as well."

The waitress nodded and skipped off.

"Spit it out, Zora," John pushed through gritted teeth.

She turned to him deliberately, her entire demeanor open, raw. John drew back, her earnest disposition throwing him off guard. "We all have our secrets, John. They give us strength when we call on them, they weaken when we share."

For all the resentment currently burning in his belly, John understood immediately what she meant. "Answer me this-"

"Be careful what you ask, John," she warned, cutting him off.

He hesitated then, tempted to do it, tempted to stomp the truth out of her. But Zora was a volatile creature and in this state, she would be quick to shoot up the place as much as walk away from him and never speak to him again.

He took a breath. Opened his mouth. "How long ago?"

The shift in the lighting scheme as a slow, somber song began to play caught the wetness of Zora's eyes, illuminating a palpable relief only John would recognize. He'd asked the right question.

"Two years," she said, her voice cracking.

Much like John's heart at that very moment.

* * *

"Five hours ago."

Igor shifted, nodded. Though confirmation wasn't needed of the question never asked.

"Five fucking hours ago and you tell me now."

"The Continental has changed, _cep_ ," Igor offered in explanation, knowing damn well that wasn't asked of either. But he couldn't stop himself, his mouth open now and flowing like a bloody wound in summer heat. "Information is hard to come by and we are . . . frowned upon."

The shadowed figure moved away from the fire place, crystal goblet in hand, and made his way over to the bar where another filled one awaited him. He made quick work of its contents, hissing from the burn, then slid the precious glass for refill.

"Tell me, Igor, _miy syn_ ," he said, approaching the short line of four men. Three retreated, leaving Igor on display. Their benefactor stepped into the light, the full head of pure silver hair gleaming obnoxiously, yet dim in comparison the pearl veneer caps rudely crowding the man's mouth. "Do you miss her?"

Igor cringed inwardly from the man's breath, but made no expression. "Who?"

"The little Black one. With all that hair and the smart mouth."

Igor bit the inside of his cheek as anger scraped at his chest. "No, sir."

"Mm." His benefactor moved away, grabbed his refill from the bar. "You sure? Your head. It seems . . . distracted since she died." He took a sip. "Since you killed her."

Despite knowing clearly where this was going, Igor couldn't help himself. He stepped up, said, "I didn't-"

"DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'VE DONE?"

Fear dropped like an iceberg in Igor's gut, ceasing any additional foolhardy decisions. He hadn't meant for Ginny to be killed. He wanted her alive, for more reasons than his benefactor's request. At the very least, for the practicality of not having _her_ come back to the States.

" _Vnochi Vid'ma_."

Igor swallowed.

" _Nochnye Vedmy_."

One of Igor's team cussed under his breath.

"The goddamn _Night Witch_."

His benefactor turned, drink in the air, eyes glazed with anger, inebriation. And something else.

Fear.

"May God help us all."

He lifted the glass higher, then swallowed it all hard.

"Kill her before she knows anything at all. And pray she has not found John Wick."

Igor nodded, not having the heart to tell the truth.


End file.
